


Four times Otabek called him Yuri, and one time he didn’t

by asukaJude



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, Secret Crush, otayuri - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:25:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asukaJude/pseuds/asukaJude
Summary: “I’m not laughing at you, ” Yuri says sincerely, though he does really wants to laugh, “I do have such moments that I would rather die than letting you know, but, well, actually—” he wants to say it’s adorable but bites it back considering it wouldn't help, “I just wonder why you didn’t call me Yura since I’ve already called you Beka for ages.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [四次奥塔别克叫他尤里，一次没有](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9180757) by [asukaJude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asukaJude/pseuds/asukaJude). 



> Umm...this is my very first fanfic in English. First ever. It's actually a translation (and re-writing) of my work in Chinese.  
> Lots of love to my beta @heydannyyouinlondon! Thank you so much!
> 
> There is a very slightly implied sexual scene. I didn't use the "underage" tag because I've heard the age of consent in Russia and Kazakhstan is 16 years old, and the scene happens in Yuri's 17 years old time.
> 
> And thank you again if you decide to continue after reading this.

**1\. 15 & 19 years old, Spain.**  
  
At the very beginning, before people formally called him Yuri, he was Yurochka.

This most intimate nickname is the only name that Grandpa would use when they spoke. _Yurochka, wake up, it’s time for school. Yurochka, have two more pirozhkies. Yurochka, why didn’t you tell me your trousers were frayed? Yurochka, I’m sorry that I can’t be there cheering for you, but I bought you new gloves, look!_

For this reason, Yuri really doesn’t enjoy when his fans call him by his nickname. _Yurochka, this way! Yurochka, you’re so cute with those cat ears! Yurochka, an autograph please!_

They are strangers: he hasn't ever properly talked with any of them. Yet they still corner him in streets and call him in his dearest family’s way. _Oh, I can smell Yurochka! It’s coming from here!_

Yuri Plisetsky dashes with his pre-jump speed through the alleyways of Barcelona’s old town in a cold sweat, heart pounding in his chest. ‘Yuri’s Angels’ have eyes as sharp as the strictest of judges, but they use that talent to stalk him, sneaking into his private room to catch sight of his bristling tail.

 _I don’t have a fucking tail_ , he thinks with a snarl. He hides himself in the nearest doorway, watching helplessly as a fan member picks up one of his golden hairs from the ground.

 _Impressive_ , he frowns, _I can’t even recognize that hair myself._

“Yuri.”

A strange voice calls his name at that moment over the loud noise of an engine that cannot be ignored; after all, Harleys are not made for having a low profile. Yuri turns to find a young man on the bike staring at him, both hands gripping the handlebars. The man hadn't said either Yurochka or any other weird nickname, nor did he use ‘Plisetsky’ as most people would when they first met; just _Yuri_.

“Get on.”

Photos and video clips of them getting away spread within minutes on social media, their names becoming even more eye-catching in the headlines: _Kazakhstan Hero_ and _Russian Fairy_. When Yuri sits down in a café later in the evening, blathering everything to his new friend across the table, he finds himself instinctively calling Otabek by his first name, too.

It seems Otabek doesn’t mind the first name basis thing either—compared to his cold response to JJ calling his name earlier in the hotel, every time Yuri calls him Otabek his expressionless face softens a little.

Yuri finds himself smiling at that.

 

 

**2\. 16 & 19 years old, Japan.**

“That is NOT my name!!!!”

Yuri shouts loud enough for the whole hot spring to hear. Viktor, who is lying comfortably on the poolside rocks, waves his hand to calm him down.

“Yurio, you can’t expect Yuuri's family calling him _Katsudon_ or _Piggy_ , and they have to distinguish you two from each other, right?”

“But _you_ don’t have to call me Yurio! Besides, why should I be the one getting a new name?!” He rises to his feet in the water, pointing his finger at Viktor while the other hand swats some blonde hair off of his cheek.

“I’ve already connected that name to you,” Viktor answers innocently, “and you’re quite used to it now.”

“The hell I am—”

“Believe me,” Supermassive Asshole Nikiforov deadpans, stressing each of his words, “You would not like to hear me calling Yuuri ‘Yurio’ under some particular circumstances that would make all three of us embarrassed.”

Yuri stood, numb, for a few seconds before understanding what Viktor means.

“Ewwwwwwww!!!!!!!!”

He pulls his towel off his head and throws it right at Viktor’s face.

“Gross!!!!! You old silver bastard!!!!!!!!!!”

Viktor laughs soundlessly from under the towel with his shoulders shaking.

“I AM LEAVING!!!! I’m not staying in the same pool as you, I’m gonna throw up!!” He storms towards the house, a little bit less intimidating than he thinks. He almost runs into Yuuri, who’s coming to the hot spring with a bottle of warmed sake in his hand.

“Yurio? Where are you going?”

“Anywhere without you two!!” Yuri shoots a dark glare at him. “I’ll tear you both into pieces if I hear ANYTHING disturbing my sleep from next door tonight, I promise!!”

Yuuri flushes from head to toe at that.

 

It’s an absolute mistake to take the offer from Nikiforov and his newlywed husband to come to Japan for an off-season vacation, Yuri thinks, wiping his hair with a towel as he walks out of the hot springs, mentally puking a bit when the words ‘newlywed husband’ go through his mind.

He goes back to his own room, a pleasant breeze combined with flowery scents and the humid, fresh air of a Japanese spring meets him as he opens the window. It is honestly very nice here without _Mr. and Mr. Katsudon_.

In the meantime he notices some of his shipped luggage was settled in the corner. He’d called Mila to send some necessary training supplies over after he’d decided to stay longer than his initial plan, and Mari must have carried them upstairs. He noticed a postcard lying on the top of the cases.

There was only one person he had mentioned his current address in Japan besides his rink mates, and that person is the only person he knows who would use such a traditional way of greeting as sending postcards. The fact makes his heart leap, and he took the small piece of paper in his hand to turn it over.

They have come across each other one or two times in different competitions since Barcelona, but both long and short chats online took place between each meeting, till the Kazakh skater announced he would be one year off the rink for military service. This postcard was the first direct message Yuri received from him since then.

It is covered in half a dozen stamps, postmarks and broken on the tips. The bold handwritten letters says:

_“Yuri,_

_Found a chance to send you a postcard and I hope you like it._

_I’m fine, though I can’t talk about things around me._

_Wish you all the best,_

_Otabek”_

 

 

**3\. 17 & 20 years old, Russia.**

"Raise it higher, Yuri Plisetsky. If age becomes an excuse for your inability, you can drop the idea of choreographing on your own."

In fact, there are some others who call Yuri by his proper name besides Otabek. Well, Yakov will be upset if he heard this, because the old man was actually the one who insists on calling Yuri by his given name all the time. Even Katsudon's arrival in St. Petersburg didn't change the old coach’s habit of appellation. If anyone got confused he just uses the two students’ full names, like the woman currently standing in front of Yuri.

Lilia Baranovskaya. Once a prima ballerina, always a prima ballerina.

 _Yes, Your Majesty_ , Yuri thinks. Though Lilia is allowing him to choreograph his own free skating program this season, it’s still unwise to challenge her authority when she’s correcting him in detail. Sometimes he wonders why she still has so many things to teach him-or let's just say, she makes him ashamed of himself after seeing her demonstrations, even though the elements of ballet have been consciously removed from this season's program.

She doesn't look her age, though Yuri knows she has been retired as a performer for at least fifteen years. And when she was on the stage she had never performed anything else except classical ballet.

"You are asking yourself how this old woman, who performed nothing but Tchaikovsky clichés for a living, bests you completely in all forms of dancing." Mila says ruthlessly from behind him. She had decided to try a new style this season too, which is why she had been appearing in the ballet studio more often recently.

Yuri doesn't want to admit thinking nearly these exact words right in front of Lilia, a chill running down his spine. He turns and gives Mila a black look, his teeth showing in a grimace.

But the Queen herself just snorted a little (and with that simple sound she implies a complex combination of sentiments like"I've heard those tasteless words for two years" "Apparently your way of talking is still impossible" "I'll thank God if you can do half of what I can when you are at my age"), leans on the barre checking the soundtrack in iPod and simply says, "Again."

The violent-tempered black sheep follows her instruction. The sharp notes of violin and piano mingles in the air, composing different chords from the classical beauty he used to listen to. Lilia pauses the music after four eight counts.

“Here.” She reaches out to move his arm from his poor stance, turning his fingers in a different direction.

“Beauty is not defined by its type, Yuri Plisetsky, otherwise I would say you were hopeless when you were fifteen. The truth is, you were never a proper classical ballet dancer—so stop that ridiculous thinking that _I’ve been caged by classical ballet_.”

Music starts again, but Lilia doesn’t move, just stares him calmly.

“You have more important reasons to change yourself that are much more important than breaking your old dancing habits. What exactly is it? Think. You’ve always hidden it inside.”

Yuri stands, stunned, in the music.

He thinks about a foreign country he has just come back from, thousands miles away, with meadows, deserts, and a city surrounded by distant snow-covered mountains. Annual precipitation was quite low there but he was lucky enough to catch a rare rainy day. The rain was heavy enough to make the whole city go into a blackout. There is someone breathing hot on his neck in the horrible weather who said yes to him when Yuri asked with all his courage and who called him Yuri, Yuri. _Yuri_.

Lilia seems very satisfied with what he shows on his face.

“Remember that,” she says, clapping her hands, “and let us do it again.”

 

 

**4\. 19 & 22 years old, Russia.**

“You make me feel more nervous than attending my first Grand Prix Final.”

“Nope,” the Kazakh young man says casually with both his hands in pockets. “That was our first competition in the same group together, I remember it well,” he adds when the other man glances at him forcefully.

This sentence eases Yuri Plisetsky’s imposing manner immediately. “Four years ago?” He kicks some stone off the road and asks the question he already knows the answer to.

“Four years ago.” Otabek Altin confirms. There is some kind of warmth in his eyes that burns up Yuri’s cheeks to the tips of his ears; Otabek pulls out his hand to pinch one of them.

Yuri lets him, his own mind is still struggling with the recent ridiculously ended storm.

“You are really not afraid of my Grandpa.”

Nicolai Plisetsky, who keeps the leash around the Russian Ice Tiger’s neck, issued his ultimatum to Yuri about asking whomever is dating his grandson to come to their home and meet him, which almost made the younger one think he was facing his biggest crisis of his life.

He has seriously considered the possibility of eloping to Hasetsu with Otabek, spending the rest of their lives teaching Japanese kids skating in that small town of Kyushu. _Probably including someone from Nikiforov-Katsudon family, gosh._

“I won’t fear your most important family member, of course,” Otabek says, his fingertips stay on Yuri’s ear for one last stroke, and Yuri leans in towards the movement. “And I want to meet him, too. He must be a great man, raising you to be the person you become on his own.”

 _Indeed_ , Yuri thinks. Men from the Plisetsky family are all inarticulate, with tempers as bad as Russian winters. When no other family member acts as a buffer between them, his Grandpa always brings him back to the way of righteous with words as tough as rocks. The only soft part was the old man’s tone when he calls his grandson _Yurochka_.

For that nickname’s sake, he braced himself to invite Otabek coming to dinner as Grandpa required. Borscht, some pirozhkies he made by himself (not katsudon flavor this time, thanks), and roughly cut but sufficient potato salad. Grandpa helped him in the kitchen without saying anything. The unresolved anxiety can almost be smelled in the air.

The doorbell rang and Yuri jumped, rushed to the door even faster than his cat running towards a tin of fish.

 

“Yuri.”

 _Do me a favor call me Mr. Plisetsky at Grandpa’s presence._ Yuri felt dizzy, and that’s probably why he took Otabek’s hand and dragged him in without a second thought, just right in front of his Grandpa’s bright and piercing eyes when they turned around.

_Oh here we go._

“Grand—”

“Silence, Yurochka, ” The old man’s voice was as gloomy as he’s facing a bear in winter Siberian countryside, “follow me, young man.”

Otabek followed without hesitation, but turned his head after just one step, nodded slightly to Yuri, who was firmly grabbing the elder man’s hand as a subconscious reaction.

 

“…You squeezed my hand so tight you nearly broke it.”

Nothing actually happened afterwards. They talked for quite a long time—no matter how Yuri presses, Otabek refuses to tell him what they talked about—then the door of living room opened, and they came out with a normal look on their faces. They all had a dinner which made the hosts and the guest very happy.

Otabek waves one gloveless hand, a smile curling his lips and Yuri can’t help his face turning bright red. After all these years, he realizes Mr. Altin has something naughty deep down in his bones. What’s even worse is—who knows how long the will man remember it?

Ten years? Twenty? What if he remembers it _forever_?

…Well, maybe it’s not such a bad thing after all.

 

 

 

**+1. 20 & 23 years old, Kazakhstan**

“I still can’t believe it,” Yuri yells to the rider’s ear while clinging on his back, taking the risk of catching a mouthful of sand, “Your family _owns_ _a range_!”

Otabek laughs, though his laughter can only pass to Yuri by the vibrations in his chest through his back, lost in all noises of motorbike’s engine.

“Not just one range,” He answers, raises his voice louder than usual but still not yelling, “We are not going to where we’ve been last time—”

“You are fucking kidding me, _young master_.”

“No I’m not.” It becomes quieter when they turn into a tarred countryside path. “I took you to my parents’ range last time, and this time we are going to my Grandma’s.”

 _I hear you, sir._ Yuri bites his lower lip, buries his face to the nice scent of leather jacket.

 

It’s been three years since his last visit to Kazakhstan, and it didn't seem like much had changed. The wild winds are still howling to the eternal snowy mountains, bring dry air into the cities and making people unable to live without a bottle of hand cream with them. Time means almost nothing to the snowy mountains. People who live here have to write something more changeable into songs, and pass the songs down orally to each generation in the villages he has visited before.

However, he can sense there is something different in Otabek this time. Well, of course, both of them have grown up. Their ways of getting along are different from what they had been when he was seventeen. Going to the rink, working out in the gym, hiking in mountains nearby, and this summer, besides all of those entertainments, they spend more time indoors. Aging brings trouble to figure skating, but benefits adults’ life. It’s fair.

But he can’t tell what the difference is. To be exact, it feels like it’s been deliberately planned over a long period time, but it bursts out this morning when they move out. Certainly the Kazakh young man won’t wear everything on his typical expressionless face, but something has changed within him.

_What is it?_

Yuri still has this buzzing around in his head when Otabek suddenly slams on the brake, making Yuri knock into the back of his neck.

“Sorry, I haven’t been here for a while, almost drove too far.” He jumps off the bike to check if Yuri’s hurt, “Are you okay? Here we are.”

 

Unlike the modern farm of Mr. and Mrs. Altin, Otabek’s Grandma’s home is in a traditional аул. In this small village where everyone knows each other, they are greeted by people as they walk through.

Yuri stays one step behind and observes Otabek quietly. He finds his boyfriend’s entire body relaxes much more than in Almaty, and he can see that look on Otabek’s face when they finally have some time chatting on the couch at home after a heavy training day.

“I was born here,” Otabek explains, aware of his gaze.

 _Oh_.

But it doesn’t explain everything. Yuri thinks about it all the way to a beautifully decorated courtyard with traditional patterns everywhere. An old lady wearing embroidered Kazakh dress comes towards them, but she doesn’t look as old as Otabek mentioned at all.

Then he witnesses Otabek runs to hug her with great unusual passion. He has such moments too, huh? He stands aside watching, feeling a little embarrassed because this scene reminds him his reunions with his Grandpa when he jumps on him and cuddles.

“She learned Russian decades ago and forgot most of the language now,” Otabek hardly gets out between the hugs and kisses, but still has a smile in his eyes, “I’ll translate if you want to talk to her—well, anyway, this is my Grandma, Yuri.” Then he turns back to explain who Yuri is to his Grandma.

The old lady’s eyes suddenly widen. Yuri feels hopeless when she quickly comes closer and takes his hand while long, beautiful foreign sentences pour out from her lips. She looks at him with dove eyes like she’s looking at some legendary treasure. Yuri turns to Otabek desperately, but he finds the elder man is even more helpless than him.

 _What is she saying?_ He clears his throat in an attempt to get Otabek’s attention, and Otabek surprisingly blushes like a child, shakes his own head and says something in Kazakh again. His Grandma pauses, bursts out laughing, then speaks to Yuri in broken Russian:

“He. Not want. You, know. _Dear Yura_. He. Call you. Here.”

 

When dusk finally comes to the village, a tantalizing aroma of roast lamb and potatoes fills the air from the old-style kitchen. Yuri pulls aside the grape vines in the yard to get out of the door, and he immediately spots Otabek sitting on a huge rock near the fields. He doesn’t call but climbs up with a smirk on his lips, sits beside the older man, and pokes him with his elbow.

Otabek sighs.

“I’m not laughing at you, ” Yuri says sincerely, though he does really wants to laugh, “I do have such moments that I would rather die than letting you know, but, well, actually—” he wants to say _it’s adorable_ but bites it back considering it wouldn't help, “I just wonder why you didn’t call me Yura since I’ve already called you Beka for ages.”

Only the sound of cicadas can be heard around for a moment. Otabek’s figure blurs in the darkening twilight. He finally speaks just when Yuri thinks he will never answer, voice not as steady as usual.

“Because… _Yura_ is not…you, or I should say, not the real, living you.”

“…Huh?”

“ _Yura_ …was the fictional you when I tried to describe you to my Grandma,” Otabek says like he’s using all his power to pick up the right words in his mind, “back such long, long time ago, long before I had really talked with you. At that moment, I blindly worked hard as a skater with no natural talent on the ice, and I was a very grateful son of my parents for their unconditional support. I have never acted like a child to my parents, you know, though I love them very much.”

Yuri nods.

“At the rink in Almaty, or at home, wherever I am, I have my responsibilities to take on.” Otabek raises his head, and breathes out long and slow towards the sky. “But when I’m here, I feel like I’m always a stupid five year old kid who’s even not tall enough to reach the well’s edge. When I can’t talk about my thoughts to others, my Grandma was the only one whom I would like to tell my silly inner stories. She knew there was someone named _Yura_ on my mind, and that it's my most beautiful dream, my dream of figure skating.”

“…Oh.”

The answer is so unexpected, it sparkles like fireworks in the dark night. The words ‘you idiot’ rest on his tongue but Yuri is not going to say them. He moves nearer, and presses his shoulder against Otabek’s. It feels warm.

“Then I got to know you in person,” Otabek continues. “I learnt about the real you—step by step, little by little, and you are very different from my imagination. Or, I should say, much better than every part of my imagination. So I haven’t used _Yura_ for years when I talked about you with Grandma. I think she brought this up today just for fun. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you earlier, Yuri, but you are the first one I’ve ever brought to meet her, and all my secrets are here.” He turns his eyes on Yuri with _everything_ of the past ten years, from when he was thirteen to twenty-three.

Yuri just raised one of his eyebrows in response.

“I think it’s nice. I mean, if you start to use names like…those ones Viktor uses for Katsudon, like _Piggy_ and _Sweetheart_ —ugh, I don’t wanna die of puking.” He giggles, Otabek lifts one hand to caress his cheek, and his own facial expressions soften again.

“Actually I agree with that. In my opinion, it’s meaningless to use intimate nicknames too often. But when I call you by a different name, it’s definitely a special moment to me.”

“Like now?” Yuri leans in to let their foreheads press together.

“Like now.” Otabek closes his eyes, “I have several choices in my mind, like _my Russian kitten_ —” His voice is obviously amused.

“Hey! I said _don’t_ be like Nikiforov!”

“Or…”

“Or?”

“Жаным.”

“Жаным？”

“Жаным.”

“You are not going to explain this, are you?” Yuri huffs. But _whatever_ , he wraps his arms around Otabek’s neck and pulls him into a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Kazakh words in this fic:
> 
> аул: spells Aul or Awil in English (I've seen different spelling), the smallest cell of traditional Kazakh society, usually is a village of several blood relative families in tradition.  
> Жаным: A nickname between Kazakh lovers referring to my dear Kazakh speaking friend Luba, she told me the metaphrase of that word is "my soul". Thanks to @LettieStorm telling me it's like "my darling" in English, you're so nice to give me tips of Kazakh words and culture!
> 
> The background of Otabek, and his grandma, and everything else happens after Episode 12 in this story are all personal settings. I suppose if Otabek wasn't an outstanding skater when he was little, his family must be rich to support him traveling and training around the world.  
> Again, thank you very much for reading. (bowing


End file.
